Idle Pursuits
by Experimental
Summary: (Follow-up to "The Company of Men") Francis didn't expect to cross paths with Philippe again so soon, let alone as he was just beginning a new life with Mary. But he can't deny the count does have a way of making things more interesting. Two-parter.
1. Essays in Idleness

_This story follows "The Company of Men," and contains references to episode 1.15 (or rather, concerns things referenced in episode 1.15?) in which Philippe appears._

* * *

Essays in Idleness

He was never supposed to see Philippe Nardine again.

Since returning to his old life, reclaiming his place as dauphin and Mary's rightful bridegroom, Francis had hoped to put to rest the man he had just begun to reinvent himself as away from court, and was just beginning to feel successful.

So why this reminder of it _now_? On his honeymoon, of all places? At the country chateau of a lord who had nothing to do with the name Nardine?

Thankfully Philippe had the good graces to pretend he and Francis had never previously met. And he smothered Mary with enough praise as to seem genuinely smitten, and enough charm so she wouldn't catch the penetrating glance he shot her husband over her shoulder. Francis could only pray he had caught and smothered his own startled expression before anyone other than Philippe noticed it.

He hoped that would be the end of it, but alas, it seemed he and Mary ran into the count everywhere they went within the chateau, and far too often for Francis to believe it was merely coincidental. Whether it was passing through the same hall at what just happened to be the same time; or leaning in to share a tender kiss with his wife, only to see Philippe, conversing with the chateau's master across the room, just chance to glance Francis's way at the right moment for their eyes to meet.

And at supper: "Won't you sit beside me, Your Grace?"

Out of all the chairs at their host's long table, all the distance that could be put between them, the count had to sit beside Francis's wife. And Francis did not miss the blush that colored her cheek when Philippe held her chair for her.

"And why haven't we seen you yet at court?" Mary asked him over the second course—leaning far too far in the count's direction for Francis's liking.

"As it happens, I've spent much of the past few years out of the country." And Francis had to smile and nod at Philippe's stories of Italy and Morocco that followed as if he hadn't heard them all before. The eager way Mary drank them up, and with genuine interest on her part, was almost enough to make him lose his appetite.

"Life abroad doesn't leave one many opportunities to search for a wife—"

"It would help," Francis couldn't help adding, "if one _were _actually searching."

"Francis," Mary chided him under her breath, but Philippe came to his defense. "No, he does have a point. Until recently, I haven't pursued the matter with the seriousness it deserves."

"Surely there must have been plenty of prospects in Rome," Mary tried helpfully.

"There were . . . options—" A light laugh, as though at a private and amusing anecdote. "—that came my way. But there's something about Italian women that doesn't exactly make me eager to take one to the marriage bed."

The fact they were women, perhaps? But Francis held his tongue.

"It wouldn't overly concern me if my father hadn't suddenly taken ill. Between us, I suspect it's nothing more than a cold spell," Philippe said to the two of them in lower tones, as if to win them over to his side of whatever larger filial feud he was resigned to, "but it is a reminder that he isn't getting any younger—neither, for that matter, am I—and that does make the issue of finding myself a wife a bit more urgent. My father has made it a condition of my inheritance that I marry, you understand. Naturally, he wants to make sure the family name will be preserved."

And as long as he gets grandchildren, he turns a blind eye to his son's unusual appetites? Francis remembered a different angle to the story the last time he was told it.

"But I'm sure the two of you are no stranger to pressure of that sort," Philippe said to Mary, who rolled her eyes in sympathy, assuring him, "That we certainly are not!"

It was pressure of a different sort that was bothering Francis now, however, thoughts of making heirs pushed firmly from his mind. And he was sure, by the cockiness of his smile whenever they passed, that Philippe Nardine was well aware he was applying it.

Francis could not even take Mary for an intimate sleigh ride around the grounds without being stopped by that man first. "Do you _really _want to venture out in that weather?"

"We'll be sure to bundle up," Francis told him, looping an arm about his wife's shoulders. "Besides." He made a point of peering deep into her eyes as he said it. "We'll have one another to keep us warm. Won't we, my dear?"

Surely, by the grin Mary returned him—which promised all sorts of exciting ways of keeping warm beneath the blankets and furs they'd have heaped on them until they were nothing but a shapeless mass from the chins down—victory belonged to Francis this round.

Until, that is, Philippe cleared his throat disappointedly, and piqued Mary's curiosity. "Pity," the count said, "because I was thinking of warming up with a round of tennis and could use the company. There will be mulled wine for the spectators, as well."

By the way Mary's grip on his arm tightened in excitement, Francis knew he would not be able to beg out of this. Though he supposed a cup of warm wine was agreeable compensation for having to watch a match or two.

At least, so he thought until they arrived at the indoor court, and instead of a goblet, Philippe thrust a racket into his hand. "You play, don't you?" he asked to Francis's stunned expression. And Mary, no help that she was, answered for him, "Of course he does. It was practically compulsory at court growing up, wasn't it, Francis?"

Francis vowed to get his revenge later. "It's been a long time—"

"I'll go easy on you—at first," Philippe teased him; and Francis feared that, unlike Paris, here anyone could hear the intimacy in it. "It'll come back to you quick enough. Just like riding a horse."

He must have known how his taunting would only fire up Francis's competitive side. And though Francis didn't want to give Philippe the satisfaction of knowing he had gotten under his skin, he wanted to give Philippe the satisfaction of winning even less. As he rolled up his shirtsleeves, it was to Mary he looked for favor and luck. It was for her he vowed to beat Philippe soundly. He could not allow someone to make a fool of him so easily in front of an audience, let alone the impudent Count Nardine.

Yet as the match progressed, it was Philippe who was constantly striving to snatch Francis's attention. He danced around his side of the court far too much, so that Francis could barely concentrate on the trajectory of the ball in front of him. Each swing of the racket pulling his shirt against his body—a shirt more clinging and translucent with perspiration the longer their match went on—accentuating the count's narrow waist and broad shoulders. Each lunge revealing the contours of his backside through his hose. As though daring Francis to recall the flesh beneath it with which he was already acquainted, the sheer masculinity of Philippe's body as he arched beneath Francis, bracing against a bedpost—

A particularly loud grunt of effort at the smack of racket against ball, and Francis quite forgot where he was. Even if it was only for a second, it was long enough for the ball to fly past him, and for him to only realize belatedly, blood pounding in his ears, that he was supposed to hit it.

Twisting the racket in his grip, Philippe took the moment to catch his breath. There was a knowing grin trying to form on his panting lips as he turned in Francis's direction, and Francis thought he knew then how horses felt when they were about to be broken. "Trouble keeping up? Should we let someone else have a go?"

They asked for the score, and though it wasn't as close as Francis would have liked, he was certain he could make up the difference if he put his mind to it.

Not to mention, he wasn't going to let Philippe Nardine scare him into backing down from a fight. "Let's dance," he shot back through his teeth, executing a courtly bow with racket outstretched, and a glare that left no doubt as to his intentions.

But Philippe just laughed at it, pushed a stray lock of hair from his eyes, and readied himself to receive Francis's serve.

It was a humiliating defeat, if only for Francis (for some reason, being beaten so soundly only seemed to make Mary dote on him more in the immediate aftermath). And he blamed Philippe's tactics of distraction entirely for it. The count didn't need to make so much damn noise every time he hit the ball; it didn't take that much effort to swing a racket. Nor did his grunts and shouts have to be so suggestive in nature. Francis was sure he couldn't have been the only one to notice it. The way they echoed off the tennis court's paneled walls with each slap of the racket was obscene—a reminder of that night he had almost succeeded in forgetting, broadcast in front of everyone.

Including Francis's wife.

Though if Mary had picked up on any of that, she gave no indication. "He was only being competitive," she said to soothe him, surprised that his loss had unnerved him so much. "And there's nothing wrong with a friendly competition between two well-matched men—"

"Why would you say that?"

Francis's heart leaped into his throat, and it felt to him like all the blood had left his face to rush under his arms. How much was she aware of? Had someone told her—had she sent spies to follow him while he was in exile? To report back on him?

"You're both too obsessed with victory for your own good," Mary explained, however, curious why what she'd said would leave him looking so harried. "In fact, you were both so passionate about trouncing each other, as if no one else in the world existed, for a few moments I was almost jealous."

Francis could have laughed with relief. So, that was all it was. He was worrying over nothing if he thought anyone could have deduced what had gone on between him and Philippe from just a tennis match. "You were jealous of Philippe Nardine?"

"I did say 'almost'," Mary corrected him. "It's not as though you two were past lovers."

—

Supper that evening was followed by a dance, in honor of the newlywed guests. Yet even then it seemed Francis was not allowed to have the company of his bride all to himself.

Philippe's rakish smile was back—though, to be fair, it never seemed to go away—and a goblet was in his hand as he approached them off the dance floor. "You wouldn't mind terribly if I borrowed Her Majesty for a number or two, would you?"

And the words were out before Francis knew they were on their way: "I would, actually."

Which earned him a surprised laugh from Mary. "My, a bit territorial lately, aren't we? It's not as though Count Nardine is going to whisk me off to Rome for an annulment if you let go of me for a few minutes. Though he's certainly charming enough, I might be tempted to let him try."

They enjoyed a good chuckle at that, albeit one of theirs more forced than the others'. And Francis wished there had been more wine in Philippe's cup to drown his laughter in when it was pushed into his hand and Mary swept away.

If he hadn't known what he knew, he might have been one of those jealous husbands ladies tsked about, scheming on the sidelines while his wife danced with a nobleman whose physique was decidedly more statuesque than his own. Not to mention, the count displayed an admirable amount of skill at the various dances for one who preferred his partners more like himself, and that while the musicians kept up a demanding pace.

Philippe was quite good at coaxing a laugh from Mary as well, with but a few choice words that, though he couldn't hear, Francis was certain were concerning himself.

To his credit, the count seemed genuinely taken aback when Francis gently took him aside after the festivities.

If by gently taking him aside one meant dropping in on his quarters uninvited and pinning him against the back of the door.

Though judging by Philippe's bemused grin, he was anything but intimidated by Francis's meager show of force. "What's this all about, then?" he said through a startled laugh.

"Funny," said Francis, though he didn't feel much like laughing himself, "but I was going to ask you the same thing."

"What do you mean?"

"What game are you playing at, Philippe? Ever since we arrived you've been ingratiating yourself with my wife in what, I must say, is an embarrassingly transparent ploy to get closer to me. Arranging things so we'll casually bump into one another. Trying to remind me at every turn of that one night—_one _night, mind you—"

"I _was _there, Francis. You don't need to remind me how it went. And I'd say we both kept our ends of that bargain. I don't expect anything more from you than you've already given."

"Is that so? Then why have I felt your eyes on me all evening?"

"Because you're used to being the center of attention and a bit of a narcissist," Philippe had the answer ready, an easy shrug to go with it. "Not that I can fault you for the way you were brought up. I hate to shatter your delusions of self-importance, Francis, as endearing as they are, but if I had designs on anyone, it was the young man in the corner all evening playing the _vielle à roue_. You know I appreciate a man with a supple wrist."

Yes, Francis was sure he did, the suggestive rise of Philippe's brow as he uttered that remark not escaping him. And the memory it jerked to the fore of his mind, of having Philippe's cock in his hand in what had been a highly circumstantial moment of generosity, must have been intentional. No matter how he may wish to, Francis could never undo the reality of their one night together in Paris, nor deny his own role in it.

Nor, thanks to the count, would he ever again be able to watch the wheel fiddle being played and have it only conjure up thoughts of music and dancing.

"Ah. I see what this is about." While Francis loosened his grip, Philippe stepped forward for the riposte, until it was Francis who was trapped, his backside suddenly abutting the edge of a table. "It's flattering, actually."

"Wha-what is?" Francis tried at nonchalance and failed.

Though the thigh inviting itself between his certainly had something to do with that, as well as the count's loins pressing against his hip. And what embarrassed Francis most was that _he, _Francis himself, was the one who seemed to be the more aroused by it. Not at all how he had imagined this confrontation unfolding.

"That you can't stop thinking about me," Philippe murmured, just close enough for his breath to stir Francis's hair. "Or, perhaps to be more precise, that night. What we shared."

"It was . . . exciting. I'm not going to lie." Certainly an unforgettable experience, despite Francis's best efforts. "But I'm happily married now."

"Then why are you here with me and not with your wife?"

Francis straightened, as best as he could around that intrusive leg. "Because she's, er, indisposed at the moment," he said, not even sure why it was something that needed to be shared, unless to justify why, despite all reason, he was still here.

"And you thought," Philippe said as he leaned in, "since I was so kind to you once before—"

A hand on his shoulder stopped him an inch from claiming Francis's lips. "Don't—" Why it mattered so much to him, Francis would not have been able to put into words; only that to kiss Philippe now would seem like a sacrilege. Maybe not so much in the eyes of God, but certainly a betrayal of his promises to Mary.

Thankfully, Philippe understood well enough. "Right. As you said, you're a happily married man now, and I suppose you feel the lips that spoke your vows are the sole property of your wife. But what I don't understand is why you don't think this—"

Philippe cupped the front of his breeches, and Francis hissed in a breath through his teeth. He could hide nothing from the count, and he wasn't entirely sure anymore he wanted to.

"—is as well," Philippe finished.

"Because we're both men." The words slipped out of Francis unthinking, as he stood there tense, refusing to writhe against the weight of Philippe's hand despite how much he wanted the friction. This couldn't possibly count, not when he needed it not to so much. "We understand each other. And this isn't about love or fidelity." It was purely physical.

Philippe's grin widened at the admission, as if he had been waiting to hear just that. "No, it isn't," he agreed, sinking to his knees before Francis. Making quick work of his fly. "But what you have with Mary is. And your conscience is all right with that?"

"My conscience is fine so long as not one word of this leaves this roo—Oh, Christ—" Biting down on a moan, Francis braced himself against the table as his legs weakened beneath him. And here he had almost forgotten what it felt like with Philippe, how instinctively he seemed to know what drove Francis delirious with pleasure. "How—how can you be so good at that?" he breathed, though he already knew the answer.

He could feel the pull of Philippe's grin against his flesh. "You might as well ask a nightingale," he mused, between a press of his lips to the base of Francis's cock— "why he's so good at singing" —and tongue dragging up his length to draw him in.

"Or ask your viellist how he got such a supple wrist?"

Philippe got his revenge for Francis's gentle ribbing. A chuckle bubbled up in his throat, and the sudden vibration of it around the head of Francis's cock pushed him close to the edge.

The manipulative villain, Francis cursed the count, as though the blame weren't really his. As if reading his mind, Philippe gripped his cock just firmly enough to draw him back from that precipice. Now that he had the dauphin here at his mercy, of course he would want to make sure Francis did not get away again so easily. He knew just how to make Francis suffer; and, fingers tangling urgently in Philippe's hair, Francis knew he deserved every second of it. For wanting this still when he should have had everything he needed in Mary. For surrendering to such a base desire so readily.

But it was precisely because it was so base, Francis reasoned, so purely carnal, that he stayed. That he could not find it in himself to be ashamed when a moan of delight, of encouragement, escaped him. Philippe tugged his breeches down further, trailing his open lips, his breath coming hot and moist between them, across the side of Francis's shaft; while his palm massaged Francis's sac in slow circles, as though in parody of the viellist's turn of his instrument's crank.

Not that Francis minded being played. The masochist inside him shivered at the harsh caress of Philippe's beard against the underside of his cock, and the sudden press of a wandering finger upon the strip of sensitive flesh behind his scrotum. Francis tightened his grip in warning, dreading where Philippe might be planning to go; but that finger went no further. Only massaged the new little source of pleasure it had found until Francis was quite glad for the table beneath his backside, for he was not so certain of his knees' ability to support him.

He wanted to feel the count's mouth around him again, to feel its particular tightness. He wanted to come to the beating of that skilled tongue, pressed against the length of his cock. Nor did Philippe need to look up into his eyes to understand. Francis's body was enough of an open book beneath his hands: his wants writ clear in the trembling of his flesh, in the hardness of each breath.

He did not have long to wait for gratification. Philippe's tongue swirled around the head of Francis's cock as he took it in. He let Francis move his hips as he knew he longed instinctively to do, albeit with a hand spread flush against Francis's belly to keep his thrusts slow and measured. All the while that tongue kept traveling, seeking out Francis's most sensitive places, matching its pressure to the stroking of his fingertip.

Until there was nowhere else for Francis to go. His breath caught in his throat as his orgasm spilled over him, the contraction of Philippe's swallows mirroring the contractions deep within his loins. And while the count drank him through the last ripples of his bliss, Francis thought he finally truly understood the reason they were all taught from boys to think these acts were blasphemous. If it was enough to make a man go looking for a certain pleasure he couldn't find in his own marriage bed . . .

And feel less guilty than he ought to about bending his vows.

"I suppose Mary will be wondering where I got off to," Francis said in a small voice after the count had gotten back to his feet. And he was not entirely sure whom it was meant for.

Philippe wasted no time moving to the washbasin to tidy himself up, fixing his tousled hair by his reflection in the silver jug with the practiced nonchalance of someone who made a living of encounters like this. Though the bulge behind the front of his breeches did not convince Francis of his detachment quite as well.

He smirked at Francis's comment. "I'm sure she is. And I hope this puts an end to these silly accusations I'm trying to seduce you—"

"Of course," Francis was quick to assert as he gingerly tucked himself back into his hose. "I got the answer I was searching for—more than I was searching for, in fact. . . ."

He hadn't been prepared for the count to touch him the way he had, and it brought a particular question that had been rattling about in the back of his mind ever since their time in Paris to the fore. "I just wonder . . ."

"You wonder?" came Philippe's impatient nudge when he hesitated.

"Does it really feel that good? To have another man inside you, I mean."

Philippe snorted at that, but concentrated on the glass of wine he was pouring himself. "I did _look _as though I was enjoying myself, didn't I? You don't think I was putting on a show just for your benefit?"

Francis certainly thought the count had enjoyed himself, as he recalled how enthusiastic Philippe had been to receive each of his thrusts. And Francis had to admit, if it were really unpleasant, there would be little reason to want to keep repeating it.

Philippe's grin stretched wider as he watched Francis draw his own conclusions. "Are you asking because you want to find out—"

"No," Francis said quickly, blushing. But that wasn't entirely the truth of it. "That is, even if I were curious—just to see what all the fuss was about—I wouldn't ask _you _to show me." Even if Francis did have the utmost confidence in the count's experience.

But Philippe nodded in sage agreement. "Of course not. As you said, you're a happily married man. Something as intimate as that ought to be shared with someone you care about very much."

"You're not suggesting I ask Mary," Francis asked in jest, but Philippe's steady stare indicated that was precisely what he had meant. "You can't be serious."

"Why not?" Now it was Philippe's turn to look incredulous. "She isn't one of those wives who insist on relations only being conducted in one boring position, I hope. For your sake as well as the nation's."

Francis laughed aloud at that, at once scandalized that the man who had been so genteel to Mary in public an hour before could now speak of her so crudely, and amused at the thought of what look Mary would surely have given Francis if he ever suggested the same thing. That defiant, puffed-up look she gave him whenever she didn't know whether to be proud he had thought her one kind of woman, or offended he did not think her another. Philippe would no doubt think Francis mad for adoring that look as much as he did.

And it was all the impetus he needed to return to Mary's side post-haste. "I assure you she isn't," Francis told Philippe, "and that my wife's preferences in bed are none of your business."

Of that, Philippe assured him, he did not need reminding.

It was then that a knock sounded at the door; and, after a cursory check of both their appearances assured the two there was no visible trace of what had transpired between them, Philippe bid the knocker enter.

The young man in an entertainer's style of dress who let himself in was not someone Francis remembered seeing about the chateau. But the _vielle __à__ roue _under his arm cleared up any confusion.

At least for Francis. The viellist started when he saw the prince, however, begging his pardon with a nervous bow and asking Philippe uncertainly, "You had mentioned something about a private lesson, my lord?"

As if Philippe's "The dauphin was just leaving" was not enough of a hint that Francis should excuse himself, the eagerness in his eyes, as they raked over the newcomer like a starving lion's over a gazelle, promised all manner of things that Francis was certain he did not want to stick around to see transpire.

* * *

**Notes: **_Vielle __à__ roue _is an older name for a hurdy-gurdy, and the proper name for the French incarnation of the instrument. You can see videos of it on the internet. Also, hose are just a style of breeches (yeah, I know it sounds weird, but they're not tights; it's from the German, what can I say). Because, like _Reign_, I tend to obsess over the historical accuracy of certain random things, rather than all things equally. :p

Thanks also to everyone who read "The Company of Men," whoever you are. This is a two-parter, and the next part should appeal to M/F fans a little more than what I've been publishing so far. Please look forward to it!


	2. Idolatrous Pursuits

Idolatrous Pursuits

"I've been giving Count Nardine's predicament some thought," Mary said after they had settled themselves into bed.

Francis hadn't meant to laugh, but one squeezed out, prompting a curious look from Mary. "You mean his inability to find a wife?" Francis said. "Don't you think it's just a lack of effort?"

"I don't know. Though I suppose sometimes bookish men have a difficult time finding someone whom they can match wits against, particularly when a different culture is involved."

Never mind that "bookish" wasn't a word Francis felt accurately applied to Philippe Nardine, just because he was well-read. "You believe his story about Roman women, then?"

"Of course. That's hardly the sort of thing one would need to lie about. He's kind and well-spoken, his father is extremely rich, and he isn't bad-looking." Indeed, the way Mary said it, it was clear she found him quite the opposite of bad-looking. "All he needs is the right type of woman to spark a genuine connection. Someone who could tickle his particular mind, I suppose."

Francis desperately wanted to tell her why he didn't think a woman's tickle was Philippe's particular problem, if only because it didn't seem right to let her go on ignorant of what was such common knowledge to him.

But then he would have to explain how he knew such a thing about the count that men of different persuasions rarely ever spoke of openly to each other—let alone the recent acquaintances they were supposed to be—; and then, of course, she would ask how he could be _sure, _because Francis would have to assure her at least once that he _was_ certain of it; and really it was better all around, he decided, if he just bit down on that urge to honesty.

Mary turned to him suddenly. "We should invite him to First Light."

"Absolutely not!"

"Why not?" She seemed genuinely surprised by his outburst, even if it was accompanied by a grin. "It seems to me the perfect opportunity for him to meet eligible young ladies he otherwise might never have occasion to cross paths with. Not to mention, it would be a refreshing change of pace to have guests at court whose ambitions are so harmlessly down-to-earth as finding a bride."

"Right. Because our being wed was an _entirely _down-to-earth affair. . . ."

"I know, I know." Mary rolled her eyes at his sarcasm. "But we're sort of a unique case, don't you think? At least the count would be coming to us as a blank slate. How difficult could it possibly be to find a young lady at court who's agreeable to him?"

That depended very much on one's definition of "agreeable," Francis thought. But he conceded the point that if Philippe cared that much about finding a bride, he could stand to put in a bit more effort himself. "Honestly? I think you would be wasting your time trying to play match-maker for that man.

"But let's discuss this particular matter _later_, shall we? Personally, I don't want to waste one more thought on Philippe Nardine tonight."

The last was muttered against Mary's throat, in languid kisses tracing their way along the curve of her jaw. His arm encircled her waist. His teeth caught the lobe of her ear, promising all sorts of things Francis would much rather have turned his attentions to, and the hardness pressing against Mary's hip was only further proof of that.

She warmed to it, laughing lightly. How she would have loved to help him with his problem, but "I can't, Francis. I wish I could, but . . ."

"I know, I know," he murmured, undaunted, as his kisses tiptoed their way down to the hollow of her throat, the bumps of her collarbone and over the thin material of her nightgown. The peak of her breast, making her moan low and the nipple rise, eager to meet his lips. "But that doesn't mean I can't adore you just the same."

Mary would have laughed at his boyish ardor, if his mouth didn't seem so serious about proving his words. "By all means, adore away," she said toward the ceiling, her desire stirring to the flat of his hand, smoothing up her thigh and pulling the nightgown with it.

Francis did love her body, and he told Mary so, as though the possessiveness of his touch might somehow not be enough to convince her of that. What he let his wandering hands and kisses say for him was how utterly he adored the weight of her breasts, the curve of her waist. The soft, rolling plain of her bare stomach when it was stretched out beneath him, rising gently with each breath. She would find him silly if he compared it to a golden field, roll her eyes and say he had nothing but babies on the brain; but to him it was an apt analogy, with or without the thought of children.

He could fall down and worship her like a fertility goddess of old. For all he belittled paganism, with its brutal rituals and superstition, one facet of that religion he understood clearly was the instinct to adore the feminine figure. And Mary had in spades what he could never hope to find in any Cybele or Eastre.

Nor was a shapeless blessed virgin, beyond any man's touch, at all what he desired. This Mary was all his, and—he couldn't help feeling—as if made for him. As if made just for his hands and lips to worship. For all the newness this adult, womanly body of hers still possessed for him, it was at the same time a nostalgic place: a place where he could lose himself for hours, for days, and never want to leave.

But though the tickle of his whiskers against her belly made her shiver with delight, Mary resisted his protestations of perfection. "You love it even when it's swollen?"

"You aren't swollen," Francis insisted, his words a warm breeze filling the dip of her navel. At least, if she felt that way, he couldn't tell. "But even if you were, yes, I would love your body just the same. I'd love it if it were big as a pumpkin." The nightshirt out of the way, bunched in his fist just beneath her breasts, he could press his lips directly to her skin, feel the heat of her radiate through him, the resonant flutter of desire stirring in her belly. "Who knows. With any luck, maybe I'll get a chance to before too long."

"All right, that's quite enough of that." It took quite a bit of will power on her part, but Mary managed to push him away, and pull the nightgown back down over herself. "I appreciate your efforts, Francis, but it isn't going to happen tonight, I'm afraid. Just be patient a couple days more?" she said as she smoothed a lock of hair back from his eyes.

He sighed, and sidled up beside her. His fingers, however, were more reluctant to leave, as they walked up the valley between her breasts. "If you want my opinion, it should be forbidden for wives to bleed while on their honeymoons."

"Not that I don't agree with you, but I don't think you'd have much luck making that an official edict."

She made up for her lack of interest in the ardor of her kiss, however, when he laid his mouth on hers. So it came as a bit of a disappointment when Francis pulled away from it a moment later. "Where are you going now?"

"To take care of things myself. This isn't the first time I've found myself at the mercy of my longing for you, with only my right hand to free me from it."

He said so with such a grin of boyish mischief on his lips, and in such a needlessly dramatic manner, that Mary found herself quite unable to resist his charm. She grabbed at his arm before he could get too far, and, throwing him off his balance, pulled him back to the bed. "Oh, don't be silly, Francis."

"But I won't get any rest—"

"Then let me take care of your problem for you. I want to do it," she said before the protest could quite leave his parted lips. "You're always far too eager to kiss me down there, and I'm afraid I don't return the favor nearly enough."

"It isn't about returning favors—" Francis began to say, but Mary silenced him with her mouth against his. "I know that," she said against his parted lips, then pulled back enough to look him square in the eyes. "But if only one of us is going to get some relief tonight, it might as well be you. And I want to be the one to get you there."

As she was saying so, her hand slipped beneath the hem of Francis's nightshirt, searching out the source of his frustration. He sighed when her fingers wrapped around his waxing erection, and captured her mouth again, so eager for it his teeth pinched the sensitive nerves of her lips. But his tongue was there a moment later to soothe the sting. She slid her hands up over his sides until Francis finally got the hint and pulled off his nightshirt. He tried to draw her in for another kiss, but Mary pushed him back against the mattress, her hand heavy against the center of his bare chest.

When she replaced it with her lips, she erased any further doubt from Francis's mind. He wasn't the only one who adored every inch of his beloved; and even if Mary was rather tired, and a bit achy, feeling Francis tremble beneath her mouth—the goosebumps awakened by the casual brush of her braided hair against his skin, and the sudden shallowness of his breathing—redoubled her own desire for him within her. Heat pooled between her legs, and Mary cursed that there was little she could do to alleviate it. Only clench those tender muscles, and relish the constant tingling, like an ascetic barred by vows from seeking release.

Francis, too, was being oh so patient. His cock lay heavy and eager against his belly, but he did not rush her. He let Mary press achingly slow kisses down its length, with only the slightest rolling of his hips to urge her, futilely, faster. He breathed her name; it became a mantra on his tongue so that Mary couldn't quite be sure if he was encouraging her or praying.

In truth, for Francis it was a little of both, but not for the reason Mary might have been expecting. He thrilled when she took him into her mouth. He loved that she was so eager to receive him.

But despite his affection for her, and the pleasure that she did give him, he could not escape the feeling that there was something missing. And surely there was a special place in hell for husbands who thought their wives' oral ministrations were lacking, he thought. At least it filled him with enough guilt to be a kind of hell. Mary tried so earnestly to please him, that much was evident. But when she took hold of him, her grip remained hesitant, as though she feared she might break him. Her lips were enthusiastic enough, Francis supposed, but she didn't seem to know what to do with her tongue, or just where to concentrate her efforts.

And how could he honestly expect her to, Francis thought with a sigh that thankfully Mary misinterpreted. She didn't have a cock herself, unlike Philippe. She couldn't be expected to just pick one up and know how to use it. For which Francis partly blamed his upbringing. Thus far, he hadn't exactly been a useful instructor to her either. Not nearly as useful as she had been in educating him on the instrument that was her body, with constructive criticism when his efforts fell flat, and oh so colorful exclamations of encouragement when they didn't. His own silence would have to end, Francis decided with a sudden desperation, or it would be forever before he climaxed.

But how he hated being on the receiving end of that look she gave him when he was critical of the way she did things. He would have to face it, he supposed, or else get used to imagining what it had felt like to have another man's mouth on him.

And admit that Philippe Nardine had shaken his expectations, raised them to levels he could not hope to reach with a woman. And that was unacceptable.

"God, I want you, Mary. I want to feel you inside me."

Mary released him just enough to be able to mutter "What was that?" against his flesh.

And Francis could hardly believe he had uttered those words himself. His cheeks and ears were hot with his embarrassment, his throat dry when he swallowed. But he had made up his mind. He pressed on. "I said, I want you inside me."

She stiffened then, and sat up. Brows knit as she turned to face him. "Whatever put that idea in your head?"

"Er, well, you know how stablehands are," he bluffed. "I overheard one bragging how he was with a woman who used her finger inside him, and that it was actually quite enjoyable."

It wasn't exactly a lie, Francis thought, even if that wasn't what or who had put the idea in his head. He _had_ heard something along those lines in the stables, albeit as a crude rumor that he and Bash had laughed and wondered at as boys. It wasn't as though Mary was going to demand _when _he had heard it.

"I just thought," he tried when Mary said nothing, deep in consideration, "that we might try something a little different, is all. Something a little more adventurous. After all, isn't the best time to try something new while we're on our honeymoon? Before we return to court, where we'll have so much more to distract and tire us. Not to mention, where people could talk. . . ."

He placed one hand on her arm, giving it a little squeeze. But the smile he had put on to assure her turned nervous and fell altogether when she met his eyes again.

"I've offended you, haven't I?" He thought for sure her expression was one of horror that he would even suggest such a thing. Pressing the heels of his palms over his eyes, he fell back on the pillows with a groan. "Forget it. I shouldn't have said it. I knew you'd find the idea repulsive—"

"When did I ever say I thought it was repulsive?"

He lowered his hands, and was a bit surprised to see a wry grin on Mary's lips rather than the scowl of disapproval he had expected. "I don't really understand it either," she said, "it certainly doesn't _sound _as though it would be pleasurable. But if it's what you want, Francis," she straightened, "I think we should try it."

"Really?" Should he be expecting a catch?

"Of course," Mary said with an easy laugh. "But you're going to have to help me out. Tell me what to do."

He started by grabbing one of Mary's bottles of oil from a bedside table. Pouring a bit of it into his own palm, he settled back into bed beside her, and slicked a couple of her fingers. Mary's breaths quickened as she watched his hands moving over hers, mimicking how he would prepare himself to enter her, and Francis wondered if she could feel how hard his heart was pounding. With anticipation, with anxiety.

It wasn't so long ago he had felt this same way, really: feeling her naked skin beneath him for the first time, exploring all Mary's intimate nooks that he had only imagined before. Afraid he would hurt her, yet trembling with the overwhelming need to press onward. Did she feel that way now? "So, I suppose I start like this?" she asked in a whisper, watching his eyes, his lips, for guidance.

But her touch felt far surer than her words let on, as she trailed her hand down over his stomach and between his legs. The palm of her hand, heavy as it passed over his cock and scrotum. He hooked a leg around her thigh, opening himself to her touch. Shivered at the tips of her fingers gliding over the sensitive flesh beyond that Philippe had so recently used to drive him mad. And noting the flutter of his eyelids, Mary lingered there a little longer, until Francis urged her, albeit in a reluctant whisper, "That's good, Mary—God, it's good—but a little further . . . There."

She halted at his word and the sudden hitch of his breath, rotating her fingertip around the depression of his entrance in uncertain little circles. But he assured her it was all right to press in. "Just," Francis cautioned her, "gently. Please. It's—"

"Your first time?" She cocked her brow at him, the smile lopsided on her lips.

And belatedly Francis realized they had said words not too dissimilar before. Although then their roles had been reversed, and it had been she begging his patience. She must have felt the same trepidation he did now, he thought—the ache to be filled by the one he loved that could not be denied, tempered only by a fear of pain, and the sense of helplessness against it.

The discomfort was sharp, startling. He must not have been able to hide it as well as he was trying, for Mary worried that she should stop, pull away. He didn't have to go through with it. But he swore, determined, that he just needed time to adjust to the feeling. He was sure it would feel better if she went deeper; though what she was looking for, he could not explain, only that he would know when she found it.

When she did, it came as just as much of a start. Though not an unpleasant one at all, Francis thought, not—at—all. Just a little lump she could feel through the wall of his passage, Mary thought, not quite as easy to locate as a clitoris, but seeming to have much the same effect. The tension left his brow, and a groan rumbled in his throat. He bucked against her, his cock hardening again against her arm. Mary hooked her finger inside him, determined not to lose that spot. "Is this it?" she murmured, satisfied that he could barely find enough voice to answer her. Just a "Keep doing that—just that" he needed multiple breaths to get out.

His mouth found hers again, and Mary drank in each moan that fell from Francis's lips. "Is this what it feels like when I'm inside you?" he managed to mutter against her cheek. And though she knew she could never lose herself in his body as he could in hers, just the thought of it was enough to send a rush of desire to flood her loins.

"I was wondering the same thing," she said as his mouth moved over her throat, wondering if her heat was as tight around him when they were joined as his was around her finger now, gripping her digit possessively. He buried his face in her shoulder and cupped her breast through the nightshirt, kneading, circling the nipple with his thumb with every rock of his hips, every rub of her fingertip within him. He hitched his leg further up her thigh, trying to find better purchase to pull them closer together.

But Mary thought she could find an easier angle for both of them. She rolled Francis onto his back, and rose to her knees between his thighs. Francis only flinched when she traded fingers for her middle one; but when she found that spot within him again, he arched beneath her, sighing deeply with pleasure. He lifted his hips off the mattress, thrusting in slow, shallow waves to her caresses, deep inside him; and Mary quickened the movement of her fingertip over that nub. It wasn't so unlike touching herself, in a way.

And in another, in the abject reversal of their positions, it was as close as she could reasonably come to experiencing the act as a man. It was one thing to be the head of a nation, quite another to be the master in the bedchamber. And it was exhilarating, to have such power over Francis—to feel _him _spread his legs for _her, _to watch him beg _her _with every fiber in his being to fill _him_. That power could be addictive. As it was, it was incredibly arousing.

Mary bit down on her whimper, but it did not escape Francis's notice. Nor did the steady rise and fall of her own hips, as she rubbed herself against the back of her own hand, eager for whatever release the friction might bring. He would not have minded watching her pleasure herself more. It brought a guilty little flush to her cheeks that he never tired of.

And it was quite clear to him that she was adroit at bringing herself to climax. Her middle finger inside him possessed a practiced assuredness that nothing else she did to pleasure him could match, though he was fairly sure she had never done this with another man. The movement came as naturally to her as rutting did to him. Instinctively, he wanted to reach for his cock, but there was really no need.

It was Mary—all Mary—who was the source of his pleasure. And the press of her finger, more than enough to drive him to a shuddering conclusion. The deep center of his release surprised Francis, and he peaked with a cry as much of discovery as ecstasy, giving himself over gladly to the firm grip of his body's convulsions. Never had he felt anything so all-encompassing, so purely good, so close to what he would imagine a religious experience to be. And it did not abate so quickly, but rolled on and on with each of Mary's strokes.

The intensity of it surprised Mary as well. She was used to the variety of her own orgasms, the elusive strong highs that seized her in her entirety if she was lucky enough to find them; but she had never really considered that her husband could experience something equally so total, so unlike his usual release inside her. Francis gasped her name as though she were an answer to a desperate prayer, entirely at the mercy of the wonderful buzzing within him.

The greedy, rhythmic tightening off his passage around her finger was enough to inspire a sympathetic contraction within Mary—not the most satisfying, to be sure, but certainly more than she had expected to experience tonight. Enough still that she had to catch her breath. And she flushed to realize how comfortably she had slipped into the role of penetrator, as she gradually—somewhat remorsefully—slowed the rolling of her hips between Francis's thighs.

"Well?" she huffed, looking down at her husband. "Was that everything you thought it would be?"

"And more." Francis moaned as she gently withdrew her finger, carried over by one last wave of pleasure as she brushed that sensitive spot within him on the way out.

Utterly spent, he had barely enough energy to turn her way as she stretched out beside him. He blinked tears out of his eyes to see her better, stroked her hair with a heavy hand. "Thank you for indulging me."

The way he was grinning, one would think he had just won some impossible prize—and in a way, Mary mused, that probably wasn't so far off the mark. "I have a feeling I'm going to be owing you for this."

"Probably," she agreed, relishing the buzzing of nerves between her legs but wishing she could have shared a bit more in his rapture. "I'll have to think of a way you can repay me. I'm sure whatever I come up with, you won't find it too objectionable."

And she smiled mysteriously at him before she turned over to try to sleep, leaving him to contemplate all the possibilities.


End file.
